


You

by Chryse



Series: What Did You Think About [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: End of the series, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryse/pseuds/Chryse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What did you think about?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancientreader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/gifts).



> This is dedicated to my beloved and inspiring ancientreader, who is not only a fantastic writer but and endlessly kind and patient friend. I was going to insist that those of you who haven't already run right now and read my favorite of her works, but I can't pick one, because they're all great. So just go [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/works) and start reading.

 

Sherlock was twitchy. He’d been pacing around all night, perching restlessly in his chair for a few minutes and then leaping to his feet to prowl about the flat again. John could practically see his tail flicking. He plucked at his violin for a few minutes, playing nothing that sounded like any recognizable tune, which normally would have driven John round the twist; but before he could get properly irritated Sherlock was off again. Into the kitchen, back out; over to the desk, where he clattered at his laptop for a few minutes and then went the window, staring blankly out at the street. Then he paced back to the laptop, frowned at it, and ran his fingers through his hair.

John was doing his best to ignore all this. He knew from long experience that Sherlock would not answer if he asked, so he didn’t ask, but the back of his neck had begun to prickle uneasily. Was this it? Was Sherlock preparing to tell John that he’d tired of their relationship? John had let himself be lulled back into complacency after Chertsey, when Sherlock showed no signs of having lost interest. He’d been quite keen to use the tights and plug again and had even washed the tights himself, although he inevitably left them hanging in the bath for days after they’d dried, to John’s unending annoyance.

John wondered morbidly what a Sherlock breakup speech would sound like. “It’s not you, it’s me?” “I hope we can still be friends?” Surely not. Sherlock wouldn’t even expect John to move out—he would probably be shocked by the idea. John felt a mean spike of pleasure imagining the dismay on his face, but it faded as he realized, drearily, that of course he wouldn’t move out. He’d tried life without Sherlock once already, and he never wanted to do it again. No, John would continue to hang around, desperate for any scrap of Sherlock’s attention he could get. John had the idea from something Sherlock had  once said that when Sherlock had tired of his previous partners he’d simply deleted them without notice, so he supposed he was coming out luckier than most.

“John,” Sherlock said abruptly, too loud.

“Yeah, okay,” John said, “I’ll just move my—“ at the same time Sherlock, talking over him, said, “Come look at this,” and John remembered that Sherlock hadn’t actually dumped him yet. He mentally shook himself.

 “Look at what?”

“ _This,”_ Sherlock said, flapping his hand at the laptop.

John got up and came over. He pulled the screen around and saw two photographs, one of two men together and the other a man alone. “Okay…?”

“What do you think?”

“What am I supposed to think?”

“Are they acceptable as sexual partners? It was meant to be a surprise but I asked Molly to look them over as a second opinion and she said that wasn’t an acceptable surprise and that I had to show them to you and then—“

“Sexual partners for who?”

“—she asked if she could—for whom. What? For us, of course.”

“Which one of us needs a new sexual partner?” John asked, simultaneously marveling that he sounded so calm and that Sherlock’s new breakup method was apparently even weirder than John had imagined.

Sherlock blinked at him. “Neither. Both. It’s for the orgy.”

Now John blinked. “Is this one of those conversations you had when I wasn’t here?”

“ _No,_ I told you, it was meant to be a surprise, but Molly said that wasn’t on,” Sherlock said, exasperated.

“What orgy? Why are we having an orgy? _When_ are we having an orgy?” John’s sense of unreality was deepening and he felt, as he often did around Sherlock, that he was missing several key points.

“Saturday night. As to why, that’s obvious, isn’t it? We’ve already done everything imaginable with fantasy participants. Time to move on to the real thing.”

John stared at the computer screen without really seeing it. So Sherlock wasn’t bored enough to dump John, just bored enough to decide they needed to add three other men to their sex life.  He supposed that on some level this made perfect sense, at least to Sherlock. John himself had never been with more than one person at a time, nor had he particularly felt the lack, but if that was what it took to hold Sherlock’s interest…oh, who was he kidding? (Whom was he kidding? Sod it.) If that was what it took to hang onto Sherlock a little bit longer, of course he would do it. John focused his gaze on the three men, who beamed at him sunnily from the screen: Hi John! Let’s have sex! “Where did you find these guys?”

“Private website, very discreet. I’ve been talking to that one, Gerard. We just exchanged real names and pictures a few days ago. His partner, the biracial one, is an actor on some television programme, so they’re quite careful. The other man is a friend of theirs. Liam. He’s not a member as it’s rather pricey, but Gerard says they often bring him along for groups.”

John stared at the taller of the couple. He did look familiar. John had a sudden image of himself at a pub, gesturing at a television screen and saying to Lestrade, “See that bloke there? Had an orgy with him once.” Christ, he needed a drink. The actor was intimidatingly good-looking, but the other man—Gerard?—was close to John’s age and, though not as unnervingly handsome, was quite fit and attractive. Liam was wearing a tight t-shirt that showed off his muscles and a cocky grin. John tried to imagine fucking that grin off his face, and decided that, yeah, he could possibly work with this.

“Right. Okay. So.” John cleared his throat. “Saturday night? Are they coming here?” He glanced around the flat, which was a tip, and said, “I suppose we’ll need to clean up…and warn Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock looked revolted. “Of course they aren’t coming here. We’ll go to a hotel. Gerard’s making the arrangements, it’s a place he’s used before. We’ll pay our share through PayPal.”

“Ah. Yes.” Logistics; logistics were good. Focus on logistics. “And—lube and condoms, then? Do we all bring our own, or…?

“Liam’s taking care of that; apparently he’s very particular. We’re to bring the whisky. Don’t worry, I’ve already bought a bottle.”

They were both still staring at the computer screen rather than looking at each other, John perched on a chair and Sherlock standing with his hands in his pockets, fidgeting. John could think of absolutely nothing else to say. “Well. Right. That’s good then, all sorted. Fancy a cup of tea?”

 

John’s sensation of unreality persisted over the next two days. He had the feeling he was looking forward to a date on which he’d been set up, but without the need to wonder about what to talk about at dinner or whether he’d get lucky; they wouldn’t be doing any of that anyway, and getting laid was a sure thing. It was weird. He focused on thinking about the sex. Liam and his smirk: Liam was just the sort John liked to take rough and hard, the type who’d give back as good as he got. And Gerard reminded John of a fellow officer he’d known in Afghanistan, with whom he’d shared the occasional pint and even more occasional quickie, the two of them getting each other off fast and dirty in whatever corner they could find.

What John emphatically did _not_ think about was the corollary. It was one thing to think of doing the bump-and-grind with Gerard; it was quite another to think of Sherlock moaning around another man’s cock. Or of someone else—cocky Liam, or the handsome telly star—running their hands over his pale skin, spreading him wide, pushing in—no, John definitely was not thinking about that at all.

As to what Sherlock thought, John had no idea. Sherlock had vanished when John got up Friday and did not reappear until the wee hours of Saturday morning, although he did send John a text to tell him that he was at the lab at Bart’s and would not be back for dinner. John had stared at this unprecedented act of consideration, wondering if it meant something, and if so, what, before realizing that if he was at Bart’s Molly had probably told him to text. This in turn reminded him that he owed Molly rather a large debt of thanks. Possibly flowers too. Saturday Sherlock slept late, wandered around the flat for a bit in a fog, and then disappeared into the bath for what was, even for him, a ridiculously long time. John didn’t object. He was planning on a very thorough shower of his own once Sherlock got out. John wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the prospect of bottoming with strangers, but he had no idea what orgy SOP might be; if etiquette required everyone take a turn riding the one-eyed wonder worm, then John Watson would be prepared.

Once that was out of the way, John made sandwiches which neither of them really ate, and then it was time for the cab.

“So what’s the plan then?” John asked abruptly when they had got close. He suddenly felt annoyed at himself for not asking sooner. “Five of us, so we can’t exactly pair off, can we?”

“No, it’s all arranged,” Sherlock said absently, not looking up from his phone. “I’ve worked out the details with Gerard. Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

John looked out the window. Of course there was a plan. Sherlock was the Man With The Plan, and John was…the man who went along with the plan. He briefly considered getting annoyed, but that was pointless. Besides, Sherlock was probably right—he had certainly proven he was better at sussing out what turned John on than John was. John slid back into the on-and-off daydream in which he’d been indulging the past few days, imagining himself flipping Liam over and slapping his arse as he shoved back in, and caught sight of his reflection grinning in the window.

“Gerard’s texted me; they’ve already checked in,” Sherlock announced as the cab drew up to the hotel. “We can go directly up.”

“Brilliant,” John said happily. He’d just added Gerard to his fantasy scene, fucking Liam’s mouth as John pumped into him from behind, and was already half-hard. Maybe orgies were an inspired idea after all. He slid out after Sherlock and followed him in, discreetly adjusting his trousers as they went.

Gerard greeted them at the door of the suite. “Sherlock! Lovely to meet properly at last. And you must be John!” He shook John’s hand with great enthusiasm.

“Pleasure,” John said, smiling back. Gerard in person was quite nice-looking, thick wavy hair and warm eyes; yes, quite nice indeed. John let his appreciation show in his glance and Gerard’s smile widened.

“Come in, come in. This is my partner, Miles.”

Miles was even more ridiculously handsome than he had seemed in the photograph, tall with chiseled cheekbones: a panther to Sherlock’s snow leopard. The two of them gravitated to each other immediately, circling like two predators at a watering hole as Sherlock handed over the whisky bottle and Miles began pouring out drinks. John caught Gerard’s eye and the two of them exchanged a smile of ordinary-people understanding.

“Your Sherlock is _yummy,_ ” Gerard said to John in a stage whisper. “The way he moves! And look at that arse.”

“Ah, well,” John said, feeling absurdly like a proud dad at a kiddy park. “What about Miles! On the telly, isn’t he?”

Gerard beamed. “He is. And believe me, it takes a lot of work to—“

Liam arrived at this point, all rippling muscles and cocksure grin, and was introduced round. John could not help noticing how full the carrier bag draped over Liam’s arm appeared. How many condoms were they planning to use?

“So you were in the army?” Liam said to John after he’d got his drink. “Brilliant. Only I’ve got a bit of a military kink, see? Gerard says we’re running a sort of train, everybody fucking Sherlock, but we can do as we like on the side as well, yeah?”

“Er,” John said. His brain seemed unable to coordinate enough to send a coherent signal to his mouth; half of it was bounding enthusiastically after “military kink” whilst the other half stumbled over “everybody fucking Sherlock”.

“So I’m thinking,” Liam went on, “seeing as how Gerard says you’re to go last, I’ll go first, and then you and me can have a bit of fun whilst Miles and Gerard have a go at him. They’ll soften him up nicely for you; Gerard’s got a dick like a fucking Clydesdale—“

“No,” Sherlock said.

They all looked at him. “I beg your pardon?” Gerard asked.

“No,” Sherlock repeated. He set his empty glass on the sideboard without meeting any of their eyes. “I’m sorry. No.”

And he walked out.

Everyone stood there, startled, for a brief moment before Gerard said solicitously to John, “Cold feet?”

“How would I know? This was his bloody idea!” John was torn between disappointment and relief, with exasperation rapidly overtaking both. After he’d just gotten himself properly enthusiastic! “I’d better go after him. Give me…give me ten minutes, and if we aren’t back, ring up some friends, I suppose. Oh, and keep the whisky.”

The corridor was deserted, unsurprisingly; Sherlock’s magical ability to attract lifts was in a league with his talent for cabs. But even Sherlock couldn’t jump the queue in front of a hotel on a Saturday night, and John slid into the back seat next to him just as the doorman made to shut the door.

“What the hell was that?” John demanded, panting, as the cab pulled away.

Sherlock gave him one quick startled glance before turning his back—or as much as he could in a cab, anyway. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared stonily out the window. John sighed. Fine. On thinking it over, a row about an aborted orgy wasn’t something he wanted to have in the back of a cab either. It was a short ride home; John could wait.

By the time they got back to Baker Street John’s exasperation had mostly faded, and relief had won solidly out over disappointment. Yes, it would have been fun to bang Liam into submission, and missing Gerard’s Clydesdale-sized dick was definitely one for the loss column, but everyone fucking Sherlock? John was not remotely unhappy about skipping that. He would have gone along with it, of course, if that was what Sherlock wanted, but…why _hadn’t_ Sherlock wanted it? He’d certainly seemed keen when he set all this up.

Unfortunately, Sherlock appeared no more interested in discussing the matter than he had in the cab. He stalked upstairs, flung off his coat, and paced over to the window, where he stood glaring out into the street. John weighed his options, and decided to wait it out. He plopped himself in his chair.

For a few minutes they just stayed like that, Sherlock tense and silent in the window and John feigning a calm patience he did not feel, and then Sherlock spun around and stomped over to his violin case. John winced. Sure enough, the sound that emerged when Sherlock set bow to strings sounded less like a melody—even an angry one—than like a cat getting its tail pulled out. Time for plan B! John beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen to make tea.

By the time he came out, Sherlock had abandoned the violin and flung himself into his own chair, where he sat drumming his fingertips furiously on the armrests. When John emerged carrying two cups of tea Sherlock all but growled at him, then leaped to his feet and strode over to his coat.

“Oh no,” John said. He hadn’t seen a danger night in a long, long time, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten the signs. “You’re not going anyplace. Sit back down and tell me what the hell is going on.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed so far they practically closed. “Surely that’s obvious even to a puny intellect like yours,” he snapped. “I _chickened out._ Isn’t that what you call it?”

“You were the one who thought this whole bloody thing up to begin with!” John said, now back to exasperated. “Why did you arrange this orgy business if you didn’t want to do it?”

“Why do you _think?”_ Sherlock shouted.

“I don’t know!” John shouted back. “I’ve got a puny intellect, remember? So bloody well spell it out!”

Sherlock’s face was suffused with red, although whether this was from rage or because of the volume at which he was shouting, John couldn’t tell. “I did it for you! To keep you interested! Because that’s the only reason you’re still here, isn’t it? Playing these games, making me guess what you like? Because we both know I’m not what you really want.”

“And what the hell is what I really want, then?” John bellowed.

“What you _chose!”_ Sherlock’s eyes were blazing with fury. “Marriage, wife, suburbs. And that what you’ll choose again as soon as you get the chance.”

“Oh for—“ John snapped his jaw shut on the words as Sherlock spun on his heel and stalked back to his chair, flinging himself onto the seat. Were they really going to do this? Have the fight they’d never had out loud, the one that went _you left me, you left me first?_ John forced himself to take a long, deep breath, and then another. He made himself repeat Sherlock’s words over in his head, once, twice, three times. They didn’t need to have that fight at all, he realized, and felt his anger drain away.

“Jesus Christ,” John said. He looked at Sherlock, a furious knot in his chair glaring into the distance, and started laughing as he crossed to his own chair and sat down. “We are such a pair of idiots, the both of us. Don’t you see? That’s exactly what _I’ve_ been thinking all this time too, that you’d get bored of me. I’m a middle-aged ex-Army doctor with a dodgy shoulder—I thought the only part of me that interested you was that bit that liked the danger, that shot a cabbie for you and carried a gun. I was sure that sooner or later you’d get bored and delete me like all the others.”

Now Sherlock looked at him. “What others?”

“You know.” John spread his hands. “All the other men you’ve been with. “

“There weren’t any others,” Sherlock said flatly.

“What?”

“There weren’t any others. I lied.”

“But—“ John stared at him in confusion. “That first night, the very first time, I asked you, if you’d ever, and you said—“

“I lied,” Sherlock said again.

“You…” John shook his head in bewilderment. The image he had formed in his mind had shattered into a million pieces, the shards reforming into a new picture, one he could not yet make sense of. “But why?”

Sherlock’s icy calm snapped, hands flying up and then back down to the arms of the chair as his face twisted in fury. “Because of _that!_ Because of the way you are looking at me now! Because I knew you would look that way if you knew, with pity, with concern; or worse you’d stop and say we shouldn’t do it at all, that I should wait and save myself for someone who would _care for me_ and that was never going to happen!” All the color was gone now; his eyes were blazing in his white face. “I didn’t need Molly to tell me what a rebound relationship entailed, I knew it wasn’t going to last. I knew that was my only chance.”

John shook his head, opening his mouth helplessly though he could not imagine what would come out of it, but Sherlock steamrolled over him.

“You want to know what I thought about? Fine, I’ll tell you. When I was young I thought about strangers because I knew no one who would ever want me. I fancied an older boy once at school; I thought nobody knew, but he caught me behind the gym one day and asked if I’d suck his cock. It was a joke, of course, all his friends were in on it, and they called me Shercocksucker until the end of term. That was a bit unwieldy so after that they just called me cocksucker. It was always like that, always. So I stopped thinking of it. Far easier to get high. Until you.” Sherlock spat the words out at John. “You want to know what I thought about? _You._ Every time you went on a date, every night whilst I was away, every day that you were _married—“_ His voice cracked.

John was already moving, no idea how to say what he felt but knowing he had to say it, now.  “Sherlock, no. No. You are not a rebound relationship, not a consolation prize or a second place anything. You’re my everything.” Sherlock looked away, his face tightening, but John gripped his wrists until he looked back. _“Sherlock._ Listen to me. Sherlock, I love you. I love you. I’ve been in love before, I’ve wanted people before, for an hour or a night or longer, but I’ve never felt this for anyone. I _love_ you. You are the love of my fucking life.”

He saw the moment Sherlock believed it, saw his face crumble and break with the understanding; but he didn’t see any more, because Sherlock was in his arms and John was crying into his hair, “I love you, I love you, I love you so much, you don’t even know…”

“I do,” Sherlock whispered into his chest. “I do.”

Sherlock didn’t say it back, not in words, but his hands clutched at John’s back as though he were drowning. And when John finally pulled back enough to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands and kiss him, Sherlock brought his own hands up to cover John’s, pressing them tightly enough to hurt. John had had a lot of kisses in his life, but that one would always stand apart as the deepest, purest, most real and true kiss he had ever known. _I thought about you too,_ John’s kiss said. _I love you too,_ said Sherlock’s.

After a time the kiss stopped being pure and became rather hungry. John broke away finally to kiss over Sherlock’s entire face, moving down his neck with somewhat less care about marks than he usually took. “John,” Sherlock gasped, clutching at John erratically. “I want—I want—“

John disentangled himself and took Sherlock’s face in his hands again. “You know what _I_ want?” he asked. “I want to take you to bed and make love to you properly. Give you the first time you should have had before.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and it made John glad to see his usual acerbity reasserting itself. Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Certain you don’t want to go back to the orgy?”

“Oh God no.” John got to his feet and took Sherlock’s hand to pull him up. “I feel I’ve only just got you; I don’t want to share you just yet.”

“Well, that’s good, as it’s obvious I don’t wish to be shared,” Sherlock said wryly. He peered at John with mild annoyance, as though John were an interesting clue that had proven to be a red herring. “But why don’t you? The idea always excited you before. The pirates, the rugby players…”

John shook his head. “I was going along with what I thought was _your_ fantasy. Even if I did, there’s a big difference between fantasy and what we want in real life. And as for the rugby players, you got that all wrong. I wasn’t getting off on imagining them having you. I was getting off on imagining them seeing _me_ have you. A prize like this? Gorgeous, brilliant—“ and there it was, the hot color rising in Sherlock’s cheeks. John was suddenly suffused with joy that he could do this, could pull Sherlock into his arms and stroke his hair and say, “You _are._ You’re beautiful, you’re fantastic, you’re way out of my league. You know what Gerard called you? Yummy.”

Sherlock had buried his scarlet face in John’s shoulder. “Oh please,” he said, muffled.

“You are. You’re delectable.” John slid his hands down to cup Sherlock’s yummy arse. “And I am very—“ squeeze “—very—“ squeeze “—peckish right now. Let’s go.”

 

In the bedroom they undressed each other slowly, as though opening a longed-for gift. John kissed the scars on Sherlock’s back and chest, and Sherlock pressed his lips to the space on John’s third finger that had once worn a ring. There was regret and sadness in the kisses—all those missed chances—but gratitude too: they each knew what it had cost the other to get here, and would never take what they had for granted.

When they were entwined on the bed, moving against each other until both were breathing hard, John tangled his hands in Sherlock’s hair and whispered, “Tell me what you thought about when I was on those dates.”

“Ohhh.” Sherlock arched a bit, baring his throat in invitation, and John obligingly closed his mouth over the fluttering pulse and sucked. “Mmmm. I would lie on the bed, here, over a pillow, and I imagined being with you.” John scraped his teeth over Sherlock’s collarbone and Sherlock arched against him again, fingers digging into John’s back. “You’d be lying on top of me, pressing me into the mattress, and your hands—“ Sherlock’s fingers flexed wide and then clenched into John’s shoulder blades again. “Your hands would be on mine, our fingers intertwined. You’d be moving inside me—oh—“ John had slid lower, found a nipple. “—and you were saying how good I was, how fantastic, amazing, the best you’d ever had—oh God don’t stop.”

He’d been so blind. Here John had thought Sherlock was just seeking an outlet for his boredom, chasing sexual novelty, when all along he’d only wanted what everyone else did: to be known and cherished and loved. John sucked again, harder, and slid his hand down to cup Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock moaned and pulled his leg higher. John flicked his tongue and slid his hand a bit lower, fondling.

“That’s how we’re going to do it then,” John said, lifting his head. “Let’s get you ready, shall we?”

John collected the lube and scrambled back to lie on his side facing Sherlock. A certain amount of kissing seemed appropriate at this point, and Sherlock reached down to gather them both together in his long hand. His touch was sure but slightly hesitant: as though he really were pretending it was their first time, or perhaps just slowed by the weight of all the raw emotion. John deepened the kisses, sliding his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth with clear possessiveness, _you are mine,_ and Sherlock moaned and pressed harder against him.

Eventually John worked his way down to where he could slide his hand between Sherlock’s legs and rub his slicked finger against him. Sherlock breathed in, breathed out, bore down, and John’s finger slipped in easily. He massaged the clenched ring of muscle until it relaxed. God, how had he not realized, that first time? Sherlock must have been so tight, so nervous, how had John not…

“You did notice,” Sherlock said. “You kept asking if you should slow down, don’t you remember? I told you I was fine, it had just been a long time. And the next day when it really did hurt—quite a bit—you asked if I wanted you to pop out for a bag of frozen peas.”

John laughed ; he’d forgotten the peas until now, but he remembered the way Sherlock had hobbled gingerly about, trying to hide how much his arse clearly hurt. “How is it that you could know exactly what I was thinking just then, but not see how I felt about you?”

Sherlock shrugged, pulling his leg higher against John’s side to open himself further. “I don’t have any precedent for being loved. Not in that way.”

John squeezed his eyes shut—he was _not_ going to tear up again, not when their beautiful makeup sex was going so well—and slid in a second finger. There was definitely something to be said for experience. John knew just where to turn his fingers and just how much pressure to apply and, sure enough, Sherlock jolted as though he’d been hit with electricity. “Oh,” Sherlock said, hands flying to his hair. “Oh God, more, please, right there…”

“You are so gorgeous,” John said, rubbing over him slowly. “I love to see you like this, coming undone for me, you’re so beautiful, just look at you.” Sherlock flushed from his chest all the way up to the tips of his ears.  John kissed the hot skin, turning his fingers to press into him again, and then slid down to take Sherlock into his mouth as well. Sherlock cried out and thrust up and John pressed his hips down with his free hand. Sherlock flopped all the way onto his back, legs falling apart in complete wanton abandon, moaning. John smiled around his cock. Sherlock _was_ gorgeous, writhing and panting and grinding himself down onto John’s hand. John teased his tongue around the stretched skin where he now had three fingers plunged deep into Sherlock’s body, sucked Sherlock’s bollocks gently into his mouth, and licked up his cock again.

“Stop, stop,” Sherlock gasped as John sucked him down again. “Stop, I’m going to come, _ah!_ ” John pulled off quickly, running a soothing hand over Sherlock’s chest and abdomen, which was quivering with arousal.

“Christ, I want you so much,” John said, kneeling up and palming his own hard cock. “I want to be inside you, right now. Please?”

“Yes, God yes,” Sherlock panted. His hands were clenched in his hair and his hips were pressing spasmodically into the air. John pulled his fingers out and Sherlock made to roll over, but John stopped him.

“Can we start out like this? Just for a minute? We’ll do it the way you imagined, I swear.”

“All right,” Sherlock said. He opened his eyes and looked up as John pulled the pillows down, tucking one under Sherlock’s hips. “Yes. I’d like to see your face as you take me for the second first time.”

John grinned, smearing lube over himself without even bothering to let it warm in his hand first. “You’ll tell me if I hurt you,” he said, mostly joking, as he lifted Sherlock’s thighs up and positioned himself.

“You’d never hurt me,” Sherlock said seriously. He looked up into John’s eyes and smiled, and John pushed in.

John’s first time with a girl had been in the back seat of his mum’s car, fumbling and cramped and over far too soon; his first time with a man had been in a dingy back bedroom, pissed half out of his mind, so crazy desperate with wanting and nerves it was a marvel he’d managed anything at all. His first time bottoming had come on a black freezing night in Afghanistan, with his commanding officer, neither of them speaking of it then or ever. There had been other first times—first kiss, first love—all of them awkward and anxious to some degree, in the way that first times usually are. But this was different. This was John’s first time making love to Sherlock Holmes with his heart wide open, and it was perfect.

Sherlock’s eyes fell closed as John pressed into him, face ethereal with pleasure, and John moved as slowly and carefully as though Sherlock had been made of glass. It had hit him all at once that every first time for Sherlock had been in John’s arms, and he wanted to make this one the most exquisite, brilliant bit of lovemaking in the history of human intercourse. So he moved at a snail’s pace: inch by inch until he was sunk deep, bending over Sherlock to cup his face in one hand and kiss him. He pulled back just as cautiously, and then slowly, slowly back in, a long slow glide that sent pleasure kaleidoscoping across his nerves. Sherlock reached for him without opening his eyes and clung to John as he pushed in again, Sherlock’s back arching as he slid a little on the bed. “Yes,” Sherlock moaned. “Yes, deeper—“

John bent low to brush over Sherlock’s cock as he moved again. Sherlock clutched the back of his neck with one hand and John’s buttock with the other, pulling them tight together. John rocked back and forth, sunk too deeply to do much for himself but feeling Sherlock arch under him to get more friction on his cock, humming with pleasure. John ran his lips over Sherlock’s face and neck. “I want to stay like this forever, keep you here, all mine,” he whispered. “I don’t want to ever let you go.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around John’s back. His legs were already around John’s hips; John could feel Sherlock’s heels digging into his arse. “Yours, all yours.  Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.” It was an awkward position to kiss in, Sherlock folded practically in half, but John managed it. Then he straightened and adjusted Sherlock’s thighs so they were practically vertical, lifting his hips so that John could press into him as deeply as he could go. Sherlock made a deep rumbling purr of satisfaction and John pulled back and held a moment, teasing, only the tip of his cock inside, and then when Sherlock groaned in frustration pushed back in, _Christ_ that felt fantastic, running his thumb up the underside of Sherlock’s own straining cock as he did. Sherlock’s mouth fell open silently, his whole body drawn taut but unable to move. John did it again, rubbing his thumb over the head this time as he waited until Sherlock made a low agonized sound of pure frustration, and then fisted Sherlock’s cock as he pushed in.

“God,” Sherlock cried, “More, don’t stop, _more,”_ clutching at John’s hip and trying to drag him deeper as he struggled to thrust into John’s hand. John took pity on him. He pulled out, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s stretched wet hole and pressing over his perineum as he continued to stroke.

“Roll over, love,” he said gently. Then he felt himself blush. Sherlock did not even seem to notice the endearment; he was scrabbling to get his legs down and turn over. John pushed the pillows into a little mound under him, spread him open with his hands, knelt up, and sank back in. He knew how to make this angle work, how to make Sherlock come howling without even touching him, but there was something else to do first.

John stretched himself over Sherlock’s back, thinking wryly that Imaginary John must have been quite a bit taller than Real John, and reached for Sherlock’s hands where they were already clutched in the sheets. He laced his fingers over Sherlock’s and rocked shallowly in and out. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered into Sherlock’s pink ear. “Gorgeous. I can’t believe I get to have you like this.” He had to be careful not to slip out, but it felt so good, the head of his cock dragging back and forth over that tightness. He pressed close to Sherlock’s back, pushing him down with his weight, breath coming faster. Sherlock’s fingers clutched his. “You’re fantastic, you’re amazing, I’ve never been with anybody so good. I could come just by looking at you under me. I don’t think I’m going to be able to hold back for long, _fuck--_ your _arse_ , so good, you’re incredible, I want to just fuck you so bad…” He wasn’t exaggerating; the short shallow slide was making him as crazy as his teasing had Sherlock a few minutes ago.

“Do it, I want you to,” Sherlock gasped. “Do it hard.”

John did not need any further encouragement. He let go Sherlock’s hands and pushed up, taking hold of Sherlock’s hips as Sherlock got his elbows under him for leverage, and _thrust._ Oh shit, he really wasn’t going to be able to hold back. John gritted his teeth and, with a mighty effort of will, grabbed himself around the base of his cock with one hand and squeezed as he drove in. He forced himself to slow down, holding Sherlock in place with one hand, and Sherlock cried out. Sherlock was pushing himself back against John and then rutting into the pillows, and John could tell he was close by the way his voice had gone high pitched and breathless. “I’m going to make you come,” John gritted out, “just like this, I’m going to feel you come around me,” and he let go his cock, grabbed Sherlock with both hands, and thrust: perfect angle, perfect depth, once, twice, three times, the pleasure like lava rising in his groin, and then Sherlock howled. John felt the first hard rhythmic clench and let himself go, pumping into that slender body as Sherlock shouted, muffled, into the mattress and then John was coming too. As orgasms went, it was a stunner. By the time John had finished he could do nothing but slide out of Sherlock and collapse down onto his side.

John lay on his side for a minute panting, and then he felt Sherlock stir next to him and wriggle onto his side, groaning a little and kicking pillows out of his way. “You were wrong,” Sherlock said softly.

John had been feeling pleasantly heavy and sleepy, but that woke him up. “About?”

Sherlock went silent, then John heard him draw a deep breath. “I don’t just love the part of you that carries a gun,” he said in a rush. “I love all of you. The parts with the awful jumpers and how you’re grumpy in the morning and the way you smile at me and the way you always put the newspapers in a little pile and that awful gargling thing you do with the mouthwash. All of it. I love all of it. All of you. I love all of you.” Another deep breath. “I love you.”

John had not thought his heart could feel more full, but he had been wrong. “I know, I know,” he said, reaching to pull Sherlock into his arms. “I love you too.”

Sherlock nuzzled into his chest. “I love you. I love you.”

John stroked his hair, thinking that they really ought to clean up and then they could snuggle properly, but he was just so happy. In a little while they would both fall asleep. In the morning they would wake up stiff and uncomfortable, John with his shoulder horribly sore and back wrenched from sleeping half on the pillows and Sherlock grumbling because there were pillows stuck to his skin with dried come. They would squabble over the first shower. But in that moment, neither of them could imagine anything more perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's the end! I never posted something as I wrote it before, and it was very nerve-wracking. I bow down to you who always do it that way!  
> I've wanted there to be a hotel room orgy ever since I read tepidspongebath's sizzling [ "001"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/487021/chapters/849021). And I still haven't written it, but don't worry, I WILL. (In a different universe, obviously.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416544) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)




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